


His Confidence is Severed, and his Trust is a Spider’s Web

by furtivus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist and Weaver, Beholding!Jon, Gen, I never learned how to not write a run on sentence and you’re all gonna learn that the hard way, Jon is a dick, Martin as an avatar of the Web, Mild Angst, Spiders, Web!Martin, brief mention of murder, but it's not his fault, but no real violence, cause I love that, i have no idea how to tag this, ive tried for a week to write this be kind, martin is a badass cause we all love that, mostly - Freeform, no beta we die like men, seems like a good tag, with only vague ideas of how to use its abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furtivus/pseuds/furtivus
Summary: The thing in Jon's office isn’t Jon. Not anymore.





	His Confidence is Severed, and his Trust is a Spider’s Web

The thing in Jon’s office isn’t Jon.

Martin can pretend he’s just tired. Can pretend it’s just because he hasn’t spoken properly to Jon in so long that his memories are rose-tinted. Can pretend everything Peter Lucas did...everything _he_ did...everything that happened...

They gave him time off, of course. He was exhausted and injured, though he knew there were further injuries they’d never see, they’d never know of. Except maybe Jon. He may have already Known. Martin didn’t exactly want the time off — he was sick of being lonely, of being alone, but even as he’d staggered through the doors of the Institute, had dragged himself down to the depths of the Archive, he’d known he needed to get out. Needed time away from the oppressive air of the Archives. From the ever-watching Eye.

When Martin had collapsed into Melanie’s arms, his whole body shaking with exhaustion and injuries too old to vanish, his fingers had grazed the skin of her arm and she’d shivered at his touch, and he’d been able to pretend it was because of the cold. She’d patched him up and he hadn’t been able to look at her, and when she’d told him to go home and that she’d report to Peter, he’d laughed and his eyelashes had glistened like spun silk and his throat had felt thick and sticky. He’d said, in a voice like the soft brushing of tiny, furry legs, scuttling together across the ceiling or the walls or the floor, that Peter Lucas wouldn’t be bothering them again.

Melanie had been silent as she walked him out, but he’d seen, in the shaking of her hands as he left, the thoughts she was too afraid to let surface.

Martin had slept for thirty-six hours straight, and when he’d finally dragged himself back to consciousness, cobwebs had laced every corner of the room, and a hundred tiny eyes had him in their sights. It was, and still is, he thinks, better than the unending stare of the Beholder. Or perhaps not better. Perhaps only different.

Even then, he could pretend that everything was alright. That things weren’t different. That he wasn’t different. That Jon wasn’t different.

It became increasingly harder to pretend.

 

Jon has always had a strenuous relationship with his emotions. Martin knows this, just as well as the others do. But he’s always done his best to show them, to connect with his assistants — his friends. When he’d woken up, the first thing he’d sought from Martin had been friendship. Had been emotional connection.

The thing in Jon’s office does no such thing.

Martin still hopes. Because when he delivers a book that’s been requested, or pops in with the follow-up to a statement, or even just brings in a cup of tea, the thing in Jon’s office will offer him a smile and a thanks.

But Martin knows that smile. It’s what draws his hope so thin — finer than spider silk. It’s the smile that had graced Peter’s face every time he’d tugged at Martin’s strings or given him another manipulative talking to or wrapped him tighter around his little finger. The smile that didn’t reach the eyes — empty, hollow.

He asks Melanie about it on his third day back. She seems to have accepted his return easiest — perhaps because she was the one to find him bleeding and broken in the maze of the Archives.

She’s in the break room when he finds her, and Martin mulls over his words while he grabs a plastic water bottle from the fridge. He can’t find it in himself to make tea in that moment. He can’t find it in himself to drink any.

“Melanie?” he asks, his voice soft, and she gives a hum of acknowledgement. “Is Jon...well, does he seem like himself?”

“Wouldn’t know.” Melanie drops an empty instant coffee packet into the bin, allowing the lid to fall shut with a resounding slam — one that echoes just a second too long in the small room. She takes a long drink before she speaks again. “Can still barely stand to look at him. Not easy when I see his face most times I wake up screaming.”

“I — you what?”

“Nothing. Look, if you’re worried about him — Daisy or Basira would be your best bet. I’m just doing my job. It’s all I can do, right?”

Melanie leans back against the counter and raises her mug to her lips, taking another long sip and effectively ending the conversation. Martin lingers for just a moment, as though he could draw her back in, could string her along with a thought, but he finally gives a slow nod and leaves the room. He drinks like he’s chasing down molten fire. Like he’s trying to clear a bad taste from his mouth.

If Melanie notices, from the corner of her eye, the tiny spiders that make tracks along his collar, she says nothing. She can’t bring herself to consider what they mean.

 

Martin’s relationship with Daisy is a little trickier to navigate. He only really knows the Daisy of the Hunt. This new Daisy of the Beholding is a stranger to him. But in that way, she understands his situation — torn between Fears, lost and confused and drifting. They gravitate towards each other after a week or so, both missing someone who’s just out of reach.

It takes a week of greetings in the halls and brief exchanges in the break room before Martin finds himself alone with Daisy, and with time to spare. They’re in the Institute’s library when he runs into her, a pile of books in his arms. She’s leaning against a bookshelf when he spots her, thumbing through a leather-bound book and humming softly to herself. Martin gravitates around her, putting books back in their places, until he’s close enough to strike up a conversation.

“Daisy, hey,” Martin says, voice soft so as not to startle her, as he steps around the end of the bookshelf she’s leaning on. He lifts the last book he has to put away and slides it into place on the shelf.

“Martin.” She closes her book around her finger, offering a smile. “It’s been a while since we properly talked.”

“Sure has. How...uh, how have you been?”

Daisy snorts softly. “Are we really doing small talk?”

“Guess not.” Martin grazes his fingertips over the spine of the book he just put away. It’s covered in cobwebs.

“So, what do you want to ask me?”

“How did you —“

“I’m good at reading people.”

“Right.” Martin folds his arms across his chest. “It’s...it’s about Jon.”

“Thought it might be.”

“Does he seem different, to you? I know I’ve been away for a while but I didn’t think he used to be this...distant.”

Daisy sighs and extracts her finger from the book, setting it down on the closest shelf. “It’s not just you,” she admits, voice low. She sounds like she knew the question was coming but was hoping against all hope that Martin wouldn’t ask it.

“So you have noticed?”

“Sure.” She slumps a little, gaze finding the floor. “Not sure when the attitude first changed. The whole time he and Basira were away I didn’t hear from him, and I never properly spoke to him for a couple of weeks after they got back. Basira did most of the talking to him. Always running about with new leads and fresh statements. Course, you wouldn’t know that, since you and Peter left before they came home.”

Martin knows it’s just a statement, but the words burn like an accusation, settling deep in his bones and chilling his blood. His stomach sinks, leaden, and his skin crawls. There’s been guilt, rampant and toxic, eating away at him for longer than he cares to know, and Daisy’s words cause it to flare.

As though realising just what she said, Daisy pulls a face. “You know what’s not what I meant,” she offers, and Martin figures it’s the closest he’ll get to an apology right now.

Something tickles the back of his neck. It’s probably just his hair.

“D’you think Basira would know? Why he’s not himself?” Martin asks, in an attempt at turning the topic back to somewhere stable.

“If any of us would know, it would be Basira. But, I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I’m starting to learn that there are some things truly beyond our reach.”

“Not Jon,” Martin says, the words slipping free almost like a reflex. He pauses, thinks them over — the taste, the feel, the sound — and says again, more confidently, and yet somehow more desperately, “Not Jon.”

 

Basira comes back from God knows where mere days later, bursting into the Archives with a messenger bag full to bursting at mid-morning, and not coming out of Jon’s office until almost three in the afternoon. Martin’s in the break room when she walks past, exhaustion painted clear on her face, in the direction of their shared office.

Martin takes one look at Basira and decides she’s most likely had enough questions asked of her in the past few hours to last a lifetime. He turns back to the boiling kettle behind him and sets about making another mug of tea.

A few minutes later Martin finds Basira in the assistants’ shared office, slumped at her desk with her head on her arms. He approaches quietly, and she slowly blinks her eyes open, looking up at him. Her mannerisms remind Martin distantly of a cat.

“Brought you some tea,” he offers, placing the mug carefully in front of Basira. It’s chamomile — her favourite.

Basira sits up, a little brightness returning to her glazed eyes, and she wraps her hands around the mug, bringing it to her lips with a grateful hum.

“Tired?” Martin guesses, pulling a chair up opposite her and taking a sip of his own chai tea.

“Dead on my feet.” Basira sets the mug down and stifles a yawn. “Jon’s had me running about ever since we got back.” There’s an attempt at a joke when she says, “Don’t know who died and made him boss.”

“Peter,” Martin replies, the word ice cold around a mouthful of tea, and he sees Basira’s smile waver. He swallows, expression turning harsh. “He’s not — he’s not actually dead.”

“Right.” Basira’s fingers twitch, and Martin tenses, sure she’s going to bolt at any second. “Anyway, it’s nice to just sit down. Rest. Hopefully Jon won’t have me running about again too soon.”

“He worked you that hard?”

“It’s all just research, no real field work. Don’t worry, I was never at risk of dying. Not any more than any normal person is, anyway. It’s just that a lot of the information he wanted wasn’t stuff we just had lying around the Institute.”

“Really? What _don’t_ we have lying around the Institute?”

And every thought he’d had of not bothering Basira with more questions vanishes when she mumbles out, “The, um — th-the — the Watcher’s Crown.”

All Martin can muster is a faint, “Oh.”

There’s a heavy silence for the next few minutes before Martin finally draws himself together enough to ask, “Why?”

Basira shakes her head. “Not sure. A few months ago I could have told you. Now? I don’t know if it’s so he can prevent the Ritual, or...” She trails off, the unspoken words hanging thick in the air between them.

“Right. Okay.” Martin wraps shaky hands around his mug and brings it to his lips, barely managing to swallow down half a mouthful. His throat feels like it could close over at any moment.

“He’s so different now,” Basira murmurs, voice low. Almost afraid.

“Why?” Martin asks finally, and across the table, Basira tenses. “Why is he different? What changed?”

The silence is deafening.

For a long moment, Martin considers. Contemplates. Finally he leans forwards, ever so slightly, more a sway than anything. He looks up at Basira through spider silk lashes. His voice is a whisper.

Jon requests knowledge.

Martin demands action.

“ _Tell me_.”

The words tumble from Basira’s lips like water past an open floodgate and Martin thinks he can pick out the faintest spark of relief in her eyes. Like she’s glad someone else made the decision for her.

“He’s been different since he woke up, but not like this — you know that, don’t you, that everything that happened was hard on him. But even when we all treated him like someone else entirely he was still Jon. He still spoke to me like I was a friend and not just some nameless assistant.

“Then we went away and we barely had time to do anything but focus on the Dark but he was _still_ Jon — he was scared and grumpy and terrible at expressing his emotions but he still showed them and he was still my friend. And we stopped the Dark and everything was _fine_ and I thought finally, finally, things are looking better but then —” Basira bites her tongue like she doesn’t want to say what she’s thinking, like Martin doesn’t already know, like he didn’t _Demand it_ , then says all in one breath, “But then you were gone.”

It’s all Martin needs to hear, and when he pushes himself to his feet the spell breaks, the tether between them snapping. Basira lets out a shaky gasp, barely audible over the sound of Martin’s chair scraping across the floor.

“Martin,” she manages, as he’s almost out the door. He pauses, hand on the frame, awaiting the _what did you do_ , and the _how dare you_ , and the _you monster_ , but Basira just swallows thickly and pleads in a very broken voice, “Talk to him.”

 

Martin leans against the wall outside Jon’s office, arms folded across his chest, listening to the voice of the man inside dance as he reads a statement aloud. It’s only a few minutes before the thing that isn’t Jon signs off, and Martin hears the click of the tape recorder, but it feels like hours. He takes a deep breath and pushes off the wall, turning to knock hesitantly on the door.

“Come in, Martin,” calls the painfully familiar voice.

For just a moment, Martin lingers in the hall, then he pushes the door inwards, and allows it to swing slowly shut behind him. Every fibre of his being feels like it’s alight, and with a deliberate slowness, he turns himself towards Jon’s desk.

Martin comes face to face with the Archivist.

“Hello, Martin,” says the thing that isn’t Jon, and beside him the tape recorder clicks on.

“Jon.” His voice is clipped, formal. The Archivist motions to the chair on the opposite side of the desk with a faint smile. Hollow, empty. It doesn’t reach the eyes. Martin wants to stay standing, to stay in the far corner and interrogate from beyond the Archivist’s reach, but he knows that will get him nowhere. Reluctantly he circles the desk and sinks into the offered chair.

“You’re here to talk.” It’s not a question. “What about?”

“You didn’t use your Beholding powers to Know?” Martin asks, a little surprised.

“Come now, Martin, I respect boundaries. Besides, I figured if you wanted to come and speak with me about something I should allow you to talk it out at your own pace. It’s only polite.”

And, God, he sounds nothing like Jon and everything like Jon at the same time. Martin wants to say that — to tell the thing across from him that it’s not Jon, not really, that it’s just a part of him, that it needs to go back to wherever the fuck it came from. Instead, he clenches his hands in his lap and says curtly, “Funny, you’ve never really been one for pleasantries.”

The Archivist quirks an eyebrow, the ghost of that empty smile playing on his lips. “Well,” he says, “people do change.”

“Mm.”

There’s a moment of tense silence before the Archivist asks, “I assume you didn’t come just to talk about such pleasantries?”

“No, I didn’t.” A chill sweeps down Martin’s spine. There’s something unsettling in the air between them. “I wanted to check on you.”

“Why would you feel the need to do that?”

“Because you’re avoiding me,” says Martin, throat tight with the realisation. This is how it feels being on the other side. Cold. Distant. Alone. “And the others. I know you’ve have Basira running around for you, but you haven’t let any of us be your friend. You must be lonely.”

“Isn’t that _your_ job, Martin? To be Lonely?”

The Archivist’s words cut like a knife and Martin stiffens. For a moment he forgets to breathe.

“No,” he says finally, “it’s not.”

“Mhm. Seems I’m not the only one who’s had a change of heart.”

“Why are you doing this?” Martin can’t keep the bite from his voice. This wasn’t at all how he’d hoped the conversation would go. “Why are you acting like you don’t even care?”

“Because I don’t!” The Archivist stands up in a rush, movements so fluid and precise that they border on unsettling. He glares daggers down at Martin, as though he can make him vanish by sheer force of will alone. “Because I don’t care.”

“Bullshit.”

“You can leave now, Martin.”

“I think you care too much. And I think you’re scared.”

An expression akin to anger flashes across the Archivist’s face. “Like it or not,” he growls, “I am your _superior_. And I’ll have you out of my office, right now, even if I have to drag you out myself.”

The Archivist requests knowledge.

The Weaver demands action.

“ _Sit down_!” Martin snaps, and the Archivist slumps into his chair without a moment’s hesitation. His expression darkens, and something like betrayal flickers across his face.

“So it’s true,” he drawls, his next words deteriorating into a snarl. “Welcome home, _Weaver_.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know. You’re not that unobservant.”

“Of course I _knew_ , Martin. I just didn’t want to _Know_.”

“Why not?” When he receives no response, Martin sneers faintly. It’s an unfamiliar expression on his face. Uncomfortable. They are all changing. “ _Why not_?” he asks again, voice low. He could Demand it, but he doesn’t.

“Because I didn’t want the one person who I thought would always be at my side to turn his back on me.” There, in the soft whisper, is a hint of the real Jon. Then his face turns stony again and he looks away.

“You think that’s what this is?” Martin gapes. “You think — you think I abandoned you?”

“I came home, and you weren’t here. You were gone. And I didn’t know where. I couldn’t See you. I couldn’t Know anything about you. I didn’t know if you were dead or alive or something else. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. So I stopped caring. I thought, why does every other Avatar get to have their emotions burned right out of them? And then I burned mine out myself.”

Martin’s breath hitches, and he’s suddenly very glad that he’s still sitting down. “So, what? One person...vanished, and that was it? What about the others?”

The Archivist laughs. It’s a cold, harsh sound that brings tears to Martin’s eyes, and he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from sobbing.

“Melanie tried to kill me the first time she saw me. Then I saved her life and she still couldn’t stand me. It’s my fault Daisy was ever dragged into that coffin. She won’t say it, but we all know it. And Basira didn’t trust me enough to tell me anything. She still doesn’t. You were all I had left, and even then, you wouldn’t look at me.”

“I had my reasons.”

“Oh? _What reasons would those be_?”

“I wanted to protect you.” The words tumble free before Martin can stop them, not that he’d try. The Archivist — Jon — deserves the truth.

He’s met with another harsh bark of laughter, only this one sparks Martin’s fight-or-flight like nothing he’s ever faced before. The Archivist grins with teeth just a touch too sharp, and around the room, hundreds of eyes settle on the pair.

“ _Protect_ me? That’s rich. You wouldn’t even look at me.”

“Because you _died_ , Jon,” Martin snaps, his voice dropping to almost inaudible levels on his friend’s name. “Because I couldn’t stand that happening again. Peter said if I did what he asked, he’d keep you safe. All of you.”

“And you believed him?” There’s a heavy silence, and Jon hisses out a furious, “ _Did you_?”

“To start with, yeah. Yeah I did. And then I realised he was a sly bastard, but he’d been good to his word that far, and it was too late to back out. And then he took me away, and he shot me.”

Something breaks behind the Archivist’s eyes, as if perhaps he’d been holding on to some hope that Martin had just shattered. “Shot you.”

“Point blank.”

Martin reaches a hand up and draws back the hair that falls over his left temple. There’s a scar, in the rough shape of a circle, the edges ragged where the bullet tore the flesh. At points around the scar, long, fine lines fan out around the edges, and even finer lines connect them. It’s the rough shape of a web, the Archivist realises. A web for the Weaver.

“You made your decision, then.”

“Wasn’t much of a choice.”

“ _Oh_?”

“You don’t need to _Ask_ , Jon. I came here to talk, didn’t I?” Martin huffs and lets his hand fall, his hair slipping back into place. “Peter wanted me to join the Lonely for his plan, and Elias obviously wanted me to become an avatar of the Beholding for _his_ plan. And whatever either of them are, I doubt they’re good. But what they didn’t know was I had another option waiting.”

One leg at a time, a spider climbs slowly onto the top of the desk and moves towards Martin’s hand.

“The Web,” the Archivist asks.

“The Web,” the Weaver confirms.

“And Peter?”

“I wasn’t stupid enough to kill him. We’d have the whole Lucas family on our backs. But I’m certain he’s going to be feeling very Lonely for a very long time.”

Martin lifts his hand up in front of his face. The spider, having finished its work, moves, unbothered, to the back of his hand. Fine white webs span the space between his fingers.

“You’ve changed,” the Archivist says, voice low.

“I’m still me.” Martin’s gaze, heavy and thick and oh, so enrapturing, slides slowly from his hand to meet the Archivist’s eyes. “That’s more than you can say.”

The Archivist falters. His composure wavers.

“Who am I if not myself?”

“You’re still you. Just not all of you. Not the best bits. Not anymore.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Weaver, and it won’t work. I burned those parts of myself away.”

The faintest hint of a smile twitches at the corners of Martin’s lips. “I don’t think so. I don’t think they’re gone. Not really.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I know you. Because I know you’d be scared. And you’d want to feel alright. But you don’t want to not be you.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” The Archivist’s snarl almost puts Martin off, but he knows — he _knows_ — that the real Jon is still in there, and there’s no way he’s giving up on him.

“I think I do. I think it’s the same reason it took me weeks to wake up from this.” Martin taps his temple. “The same reason it took you months. Because being an Avatar means being not quite human. Because it’s not exactly something most people want. It’s not something you wanted.”

“Shut up,” the Archivist hisses, eyes narrow and desperate.

“I know you’re scared, Jon. In fact, I’d be more worried if you weren’t. But this isn’t the way to deal with it. Because you haven’t burned anything away. You’ve just stuck up a few walls, and you hope that’s going to keep you safe, but one day something will go wrong and you’ll find out they were never enough. Something will go wrong and it will _break you_ , Jonathan Sims. And I don’t ever want to see that happen.”

For a long, long moment, the Archivist just stares at Martin, expression unreadable. And then, slowly, almost timidly, Jon begins to cry.

The thread holding him down unravels, and Jon slumps forwards in his chair, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. Martin’s before him in seconds, crouching on the ground with one hand resting gently on Jon’s knee and the other on his own for balance.

“It’s alright,” Martin murmurs, and then the next few seconds are a blur, but they both somehow end up kneeling on the floor, Jon wrapped tightly in Martin’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” Jon murmurs, voice muffled by Martin’s vest. “I was just so — so —”

“Overwhelmed?” Martin offers, and Jon nods. “I’m sorry, too. I let myself get so caught up in trying to protect you. Even when I knew I was going about it the wrong way. I just...didn’t want to lose any of you again.” He feels Jon shudder against him, and tries for a different approach. “The others are worried, you know? Maybe...maybe you should see them?”

“Give me a minute.” Martin feels Jon exhale, heavy, against his collar, and he closes his eyes with a reluctant smile. He’ll give Jon all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> This got so rushed at the end (and kinda shippy but I’m not complaining) but uhhh here have this mess that’s been in my head ever since I first saw the theory on Web!Martin  
> Don’t ask why I used a Bible verse as the title I’m not even religious but it fits


End file.
